


A Gift for the Mage

by Toastybluetwo



Category: Dragon Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toastybluetwo/pseuds/Toastybluetwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the tradition of The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry, Carver and Merrill buy one another Saturnalia gifts during their second desperate year in Kirkwall. Gift fic for Jackknifed @ Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gift for the Mage

**A Gift for the Mage**

 

Carver had nothing, but he had his family.

He had a roof over his head – critical at this time of year, when the air grew so chilled that his bones ached beneath the thin, patched cloak that he wore. The fact that he owned a cloak at all was, in itself, proof that he owned more than most. Some beggars in Hightown huddled in extra rags when the comforts of fur and thick wool eluded them.

Bethany was gone – his twin, her laugh, her smile, her way of knowing exactly what he was thinking and feeling, even if they didn’t have much in common, even if they differed in opinion on so much in life. Yet, he still had his mother and Marian. They annoyed him, prodded him, and lectured him, but at least they cared.

Merrill didn’t even have that.

Granted, she scraped together her coppers and pawned her share of the loot from odd jobs and mercenary contracts to afford the rent on a house in the Alienage. Yet, the furniture in the house had clearly been there before Merrill took residence. She slept on a bare bed with no blankets or pillows, just a mattress stuffed with musty straw that smelled strongly of mildew.

Marian and Merrill didn’t get along. Carver didn’t pay attention to the specifics – some mage thing, it sounded like to him. Something involving blood magic, which was bad, but the specifics were tied up in everything that Carver didn’t have patience for – books, history, sitting inside and fretting over something ancient and dusty. No doubt, the chasm between Marian and Merrill had something to do with Marian being bossy, as she always was, perhaps making Merrill do something that she really didn’t want to.

Carver didn’t ask for details. It wasn’t any of his business, except the part about Marian taking command of their ragtag band of paid muscle and magic, all because Marian was special, because she was Mother’s favorite, and she had that way with people that set Carver’s teeth on edge.

But he noticed the bare bed, and noticed the way that Merrill stared at the floor when Marian and Anders dismissed her ideas and thoughts. Carver thought both to be a crime of some kind, but of course, Aveline didn’t seem to care enough to notice, let alone make a prosecution.

“Do the Dalish have blankets?” Carver asked Merrill during one of their many trips up the Wounded Coast to rescue another nobleman’s child.

“This isn’t some sort of racist joke, is it?” Marian raised her eyebrows as she turned to look at her little brother.

“Of course not!” Immediately Carver regretted broaching the subject in front of his sister. He should have waited until he and Merrill were alone. Perhaps he should have visited her at her house. He was a grown man, after all. It wasn’t as though he needed to tell Marian or his mother where he was headed every time he set foot out the door.

“Oh, sure, we do.” Merrill smiled at Carver, her tones pleasant, as if she hadn’t heard Marian at all. “We have some rather nice ones, ornately woven with pictures of halla or other animals. Sometimes they’re just filled with designs.”

At that moment, Carver’s cloak, which had merely been tied around his neck for the lack of a proper fastening, slid free of his neck. Turning quickly, Carver tried to snatch up his cloak even as it floated on the chilled air, but only recovered it once it fell to the ground in a heap of patched fabric.

Merrill made what sounded like a sympathetic sort of noise. “That cloak’s seen better days,” she murmured softly enough for only him to hear.  “I thought I saw one at the market the other day. It looked long enough for you, too. I didn’t ask for the price.”

“Can’t afford a new one.” Carver tied it around his neck again, trying to make sure that the knot was good and secure this time. “Besides, this was my father’s.”

“Ooh.” Merrill’s bare fingers traced the once-intricate designs woven into the cloak’s hem, now frayed and discolored to the point of obscurity. “I’d bet it was lovely when it was new.” Her green eyes moved to his face, her expression curious. “Why were you asking about Dalish blankets?”

Carver started to walk again, but moving slower and keeping his distance from Marian and Anders. The two seemed to be occupied in quiet conversation, at any rate, and had not noticed Carver’s struggle with his cloak. “I noticed that you didn’t have any bedclothes on your bed.”

“I don’t need any.” Cheer tinged Merrill’s voice as she began to follow him. “Have you been to my house when the hearth’s lit? It’s as warm as a summer day in there. Not one bit of chill to be had. Why, with the straw mattress and all, I feel like I’m sleeping in the grass.”

Carver almost paused in his footsteps, but instead faltered as he walked, then returned to his former cadence. Merrill had managed to find happiness in the middle of all of this. She discovered a summer’s day in a hovel within a miserable Alienage, speaking of it cheerfully as they trudged through icy air that threatened bone-aching rain.

He didn’t understand it. He couldn’t.

Yet, he felt driven forward by her optimism. He remembered her words the next day when thick, dark clouds shrouded the sun, occasionally letting forth small gouts of stinging sleet that smashed against stone roofs and left welts on bare skin.

“Venison stew would be perfect on a day like this.” Leandra had pressed several coins in Carver’s hand. “Go to the market and see if there’s any to be had. Flour, too.”

Carver knew that there would be flour there, but venison? This wasn’t Ferelden. The forests were a distant memory of blurred leaves and long, dark shadows that could be hiding wild beasts, a Chasind mage, or darkspawn. The rocks and the ocean would produce any amount of fish or shelled creatures, but not much for fresh vegetables or game meat. Not this time of the year.

The few food stalls that remained open in the inclement weather sold only braids of onions and garlic, along with a few large barrels of salted meats that Carver could, in no way, afford.

“Look here, Ser,” a young boy’s voice rang out from between the drops of hardened rain. “My family’s going back to Ferelden. We have to sell everything.”

Carver turned toward the direction of the voice. A child, quite a few years below adult age, had erected a makeshift stall using two barrels and a plank of soaked wood. On this plank sat a number of basic household necessities, including a solid iron kettle and four stone mugs.

The boy shivered as he jabbed a finger toward the kettle. “Been in my family for generations, ser. Clean like it were made yesterday. Yours for ten silver.”

Approaching the boy’s stall, Carver slid his hands into the pockets of his cloak. “Does your mother know that you’re selling these things?” He asked, cringing inwardly as he heard himself speak these words. For a moment, he sounded exactly like Marian.

“Yes, ser. She went home. She’ll be right back.” For a moment, fear touched the boy’s face. “You need a blanket for your wife, ser? Brought it on the boat all the way from Ferelden. Mother washed it good with soap just last week.”

Carver almost didn’t hear the comment about having a wife. His gaze, instead, rested on the folded blanket that sat on top of one of the barrels. Patchwork quilts weren’t exactly a rarity, even ones made with great skill, such as the one that lay before him. He took in the sight of the tiny stitches, the patterned fabric pressed together, covered with a thin sheen of ice and water together.

Merrill needed this blanket. She might have her warm, green field within her mind, but soon, this illusion would fade into the inevitable chill coming with the end of the old year and the beginning of the new.

“How much?” Carver asked.

“Fifty silvers,” the boy replied.

Carver shook his head. The money that Leandra had given him for food wouldn’t cover such a purchase, nor would the coin in his pocket. Nor, in fact, would both together. “Steep price for a blanket. I’ll pass.”

He expected the boy to stop him from leaving the stall with a plea that the price could be lowered. This did not happen. Instead, Carver paused of his own volition, staring at this young boy who was alone in this Lowtown market. Alone in a dangerous place, where he could likely be a target for thieves or worse. Alone in a foreign land, cold in this unforgiving weather, and trying to survive with the odds against him.

Just like Carver’s family.

Just like Merrill.

Reaching up to his neck, Carver began to untie his cloak. “Does your mother sew?” He asked the boy.

“Yes, ser. She made the blanket.” The boy tucked his hands in his own armpits, his lower jaw trembling.

“Not why I asked the question. You think she can repair this cloak? You need one.” Carver held it in one hand – the cloak, his only cloak, his father’s cloak. It would keep the boy warm. It would keep Merrill warm. “I’ll trade you this for your blanket.”

The boy shook his head. It was an almost convulsive gesture, a jerk from an already shivering body. “Mother said I couldn’t take less than fifty silvers.”

“You’ll be dead of cold before you set foot in Ferelden. This cloak is worth a gold or more.” Carver knew that he sounded impatient, but he refused to mask it. After all, the boy was being a fool in his obedience. “Do we have a deal or not?”

The boy hesitated, then reached out one thin, pale arm. “Alright, then. Done.”

Grinding his own teeth together to keep them from chattering, Carver handed the cloak to the boy, then swept up the blanket, tucking it under one of his arms.

There would be no venison stew in Gamlen’s house that night. Carver bought some sausage, cheese, and a small bag of flour for bread that would be baked on another day. He hid the blanket in an empty barrel near his bed and waited for Saturnalia.

Leandra planned a good, hearty meal for Saturnalia, with enough food to fill the bellies of her brother, her children, and any of their friends that might want to join them.

Carver didn’t buy any of his sister’s companions a present, none except Merrill. He didn’t have enough money to do so, even if he wanted to show such generosity, which he didn’t. He bought Marian and Leandra each a pair of warm, thick stockings, and a small leather money pouch for Gamlen.

He decided to deliver the gift well before the meal, a few hours before they would gather in Gamlen’s tiny home and sit wherever there was room. With the blanket tucked under his arm, he made the weak excuse of needing some air, kept to the shadows and kept the blanket hidden, and slipped out and into the cold air.

He thought about the Ferelden boy, now wrapped in Malcolm Hawke’s cloak, now perhaps bound for home on a ship sailing through an icy sea. Someday, the cloak would fit him. For now, the boy would have more cloak than he needed, yet as much warmth as the body and soul required to survive.

Carver no sooner knocked on Merrill’s door than it opened, revealing her smiling face. “Am I late to the party? Did you come to fetch me?”

“Can I come in?” Carver tried his best to hide the blanket behind his back, but he soon realized that this action was futile at best. After all, it wasn’t as though he had the money for a decorative bag to hide the blanket.

“Oh, of course!” Her cheeks reddened as she opened the door wide enough to allow him entry. “I’m sorry. I was so shocked that someone came to visit me that I got caught up in the whole thing. I’m glad that you’re here, though.” She closed the door behind Carver, clasped her hands behind her back, and murmured, “I have something for you.”

Carver raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t heard Merrill speak of Saturnalia at all. In truth, he hadn’t expected getting a gift from anyone. None of his sister’s companions, or his mother or Gamlen, had much in the way of extra money. Perhaps Varric might have had some extra funds from his various business ventures, or Sebastian had kept aside a few gold pieces while living as a brother in the Chantry, but neither of them had made mention of shopping, either.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said quickly, almost dropping the blanket in the process. In the surprise of the possibility of receiving a gift, he had all but forgotten the one that he meant to give.

She moved so quickly that he almost didn’t realize what she was doing until she had darted between a bare, dusty bookshelf, grabbed something, returned to him, and pressed the item into his hand. “I heard that humans wrap their gifts in special paper. I didn’t have any, but I had some bits of cloth. Hope that’s alright. What’s that?”

“I…ah…” The mysterious item, wrapped in filthy cloth and tied rather neatly with a frayed rag bow, fit neatly in the palm of Carver’s hand. He cleared his throat, then held out the blanket. “For you. Happy Saturnalia. It’s for your bed.”

“Oh!” Covering her mouth for a moment with her hand, Merrill then reached for the blanket, taking it carefully, as if it was something precious. “Look at this. Look at all the wee stitches! Did you make this for me?”

“I…no. It’s second hand.” Carver tried not to be horrified with the mental image of himself sewing. “I…I saw that you didn’t have a blanket for your bed. Everyone needs a blanket.”

“I…oh.” The joy slipped from her face for a moment before she replaced it with a soft smile. “Thank you so much. That was very kind, Carver, and thoughtful.”

Carver paused, noting the expression on her face. He wondered for a moment what he’d done wrong, then simply lay the thought aside. Perhaps the blanket reminded Merrill of someone in the past, or something, or simply conjured up memories of her clan.

Perhaps he had done nothing wrong at all.

With his large fingers, he plucked at the bow on his package, filling the silence with a few small humming noises, indicating a great amount of effort. “I wonder what’s in here?” He murmured as he unfolded the dirty cloth, revealing at first a glint of metal, then the shape of a sword resting upon a circle, ornately crafted with small folds and tiny details.

“It’s Dalish crafted,” Merrill blurted out, looking somewhat uncertain. “A pin to fasten your cloak. Your cloak is so lovely; it deserves something nice on top.”

Carver wondered where these tears had come from, the ones that now burned in his eyes and threatened to spill out over his cheeks. As he looked away from Merrill in an effort to disguise this sudden flood of emotion, he saw a small mat by the fire, rumpled and obviously well-used. She had been sleeping by the fireplace, trying her best to stave away the chill as it crept under her front door.

He did not know that in the twisting corridor beyond the front room, where her bed had once stood, a pile of dust served as a reminder of the comfort that they had both gained, and the things in life that they could both live without.

~END~


End file.
